


Utterly Umbridge

by kurgaya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:32:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few snapshots into OoTP from Dolores Umbridge's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Utterly Umbridge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redcandle17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/gifts).



> I'm so so so so sorry for this pathetic attempt at a fic. I was planning on doing so much but my fic brain died a month or so back and I'm still picking up the pieces.
> 
> However, writing Umbridge was fun so I hope I haven't butchered the HP fandom ^^;

**I**

“Hem, hem.”

The candles floating behind the Headmaster flickered as she approached, her small heels clacking against the stone floor of the Great Hall. Dolores tugged discretely at her favourite pink dress – the less frumpy one, perfect for formal occasions like this – and tottered over to where Dumbledore was standing. The eyes of every single child in the room was fixed upon her and she tried to hide a wince behind her smile – she was better than the snivelling brats lounged at the tables below her, and she wouldn’t let them tell her otherwise.

 _No sweetie_ , she corrected herself, _you cannot call them ‘brats’ anymore_.

One of the teachers – not Ministry approved, that much was for certain – slipped a startled noise when Dumbledore stepped back to accommodate her, but Dolores ignored them both as she took her place at the phoenix pedestal. Judging by the expressions on the student’s faces when she cleared her throat, it was slightly too tall for her to be taken seriously, and Dolores made a note to change that when she was given the chance. Perhaps when she became the Headmistress; yes, it will be the first thing on her list.

(Surely that was why the Minister had sent her to Hogwarts? What point was there of sending someone of her expertise and experience if not to acquire a position powerful enough to actually make some fundamental and deserving changes? Heaven knows Dumbledore was getting too old).

She thanked Dumbledore for introducing her and then introduced herself again, this time expanding on the Ministry’s aims for the next year. To show her enthusiasm to the new curriculum she had learned the speech by heart, but with how captured her audience appeared to be with every wonderful word that she spoke, Dolores supposed that they wouldn’t notice if she slipped up occasionally. Not that she would (it took dedicated, hard work to achieve her rank in the Ministry of Magic) but it offered a moment of comfort. She had already enthralled Hogwarts – the rest would be like stealing candy from a baby.

Dumbledore lead the applause when she was finished. She hadn’t expected such a display of polite consideration and she smiled as she teetered back to her seat. Perhaps he would not be so hard to persuade as the Minister believed him to be? Dolores hoped so. Of course, she was a Slytherin and she thoroughly enjoyed a challenge, but if the old quack could dig his own hole than she wasn’t exactly going to stop him.

Dolores, 1. Everyone else, 0.

**II**

Her last lesson of the day was double Fifth Year Gryffindor and she could easily say, with one hundred per cent conviction, that she was absolutely gleeful about knocking a certain student down a few pegs. As per the rules she would have to wait for Harry Potter to open his spiteful little mouth first, but from what she had seen and heard about his attention-seeking behaviour, this wasn’t going to be a problem. Potter was a lying menace and needed to be treated as such – if Dolores had to take on the task herself then, well, there were few others with her capabilities.

She sipped a cup of hot, creamy tea and waved her wand to tidy her desk – it was already immaculate, but being thorough was just part of her job description. The essays from the Fourth and Sixth Year students restacked themselves and levitated to the corner, her peacock feather quill quivered and preened, and the hefty copy of Wilbert Slinkhard’s ‘Defensive Magical Theory’ opened up to the chapter her class would be reading from. She arranged the large black bow on top of her hair so that it sat perfectly symmetrical, and the first of the Fifth Years trickled into the room.

They sat down hesitantly, quietly. _Good_ , she thought bitterly. _Wretches_.

“Well, good afternoon!” she said once they’d finished getting out their wands and kicked their bags under their desks. There was a grumbled reply in answer, some of the students exchanging startled glances, and Dolores had to frown at the lack of manners in the school. If she was in charge every teacher would happily greet their class – what student learns well with a miserable teacher?

Under her insistence the class replied more appropriately, their voices ringing out as one like an old, bronze church bell. Dolores clapped her hands together, taking what she could get, and then told them to put away their wands. They shuffled to do just that, looking disappointed. The Ministry worker wrinkled her nose but kept the smile plastered to her face. The _nerve_ they had, getting their wands out as if expecting to use them. Her various predecessors must have been truly awful to brainwash the children this badly – and having a new teacher every year must have been hard on them.

 _Well_ , she thought. _That was going to change now_. Her curriculum was Ministry-approved and safe for students of every age; there was no doubt to its success – to her success. She was going to become the embodiment of the perfect teacher and the students would learn – oh they would – that firing dangerous and uncontrolled spells across a classroom was only asking for trouble. Theory was what they needed to get through their exams, not _practice_. If they studied enough to understand the concept of the magic that they were using, then they would have no problem with effectively – _magnificently_ – acing their exams.

Or so the Ministry said.

And Dolores listened to the Ministry.

She had another sip of her tea. Most of the students were now reading the first chapter of their textbook, though one bushy-haired young girl was staring at her from across the room, one hand up firmly in the air. Dolores had no idea what her name was but she looked more like a bookworm than a rebel, and so she was ignored for the best part of five minutes. The girl was persistent, however, and Dolores had to resign herself to asking what she wanted when over half the class were now tuned into the silent battle of wills taking place across the room.

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?”

The girl lowered her hand but still regarded her stubbornly. Dolores frowned a little, rethinking her previous judgement.

“Not about the chapter, no.”

Potter startled, and Dolores could see his eyes narrow in concern. She supposed the two students were friends of sorts, and wondered if his deceitful nature had rubbed off on her. Dismissing the girl’s query, the teacher returned to her steadily-growing-cold cup of tea, wishing it wouldn’t be improper to make another one.

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” the insistent girl went on, her arms now crossed over her chest, one foot bouncing in the air impatiently.

Dolores could have laughed. “And your name is?”

“Hermione Granger.”

 _Ah_ , she thought. She _was_ one of Potter’s friends. A quick glance across the expanse of the room completed the trio – the slothful red-head who was rolling his quill up and down the desk must be Ronald Weasley. A troublesome bunch, that was to say the least. Perhaps if she bested the voice of reason that was Granger, Potter would be more likely to abide to the rules. Or the opposite, which would probably be much more fun for her.

“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully.”

Granger looked sorely tempted to challenge her, and so she did. “There’s nothing written up there about _using_ defensive spells.”

Dolores bristled. Everyone in this school was obsessed with spending hours of lessons having children wave around hazardous objects it seemed. In Defence Against The Dark Arts there should be no concern about getting attacked by Dark Arts – this was a school! – and she informed them of such, cackling quietly at their expressions.

The class erupted. Questions were fired at her left, right, and centre, and each time they were asked without an accompanied hand she turned the student away – her classroom was a place of organised learning, not frenzied debates between reckless fifteen year olds. She would uphold the rules even if no one else would.

Potter was boiling at the back of the room. Dolores watched him with satisfaction as she calmly tried to answer each of his classmate’s questions, the cup of cold tea still in her hands, her nails tapping the delicate china. His temperament foretold that he would explode soon so she hardly batted an eyelash his way until the time came – she couldn’t, after all, be at fault for _provoking him_.

The shout of ‘Lord Voldemort’ instantly lost Potter ten points and gained him a varying degree of terrified looks from the people around him. One boy slipped off of his stool – Dolores figured he’d pick himself up – and so just took a deep breath, feeling oddly mollified. Children were so predictable.

“You have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again,” she soothed, raising her eyebrows expectantly at Potter. She knew what he would say – knew what filthy deceptions would come out of his mouth. “ _This is a lie_.”

“It is NOT a lie!” he argued, half-standing at the sheer effort of his verdict. “I saw him, I fought him!”

“Detention, Mr Potter!”

 _Oh_.

 _Sa – tis – fac – tion_.

Potter’s shouts became hysterical. The rest of the class were silent and still, statues, while Potter was an explosion ripping through the building and drowning out the air and sound. _Selfishness_ , Dolores thought. _Utter selfishness_.

The look on his face when she sent him to McGonagall was worth it though.

What a poor, poor child.

Twits, the lot of them.

 

**III**

There was a knock on her office door exactly at five. Having expected the boy to be late or miss his detention completely, Dolores allowed herself a moment of surprise before bidding him inside. Potter walked in cautiously, scanning the expanse of the room with a careful, wary eye. She supposed he must be comparing her interior decorating with the room’s old, rustic décor – it had been truly awful, and she knew her flowery, kitten-orientated design was much better. It was less like a DADA teacher’s office and more like a… home.

Yes, that was what it was. A welcoming resort for her and her students to relax in.

“Good evening, Mr Potter,” she greeted sweetly, drawing his attention aware from the portrait of a calico kitten swatting the frame lazily. Potter mumbled a greeting in reply, trying hard not to melt her into the floor with his glare. Dolores waved a hand towards the small table she had set out for this occasion – the lace tablecloth was one of her old ones, which was why it was perfect for tonight’s detention. She didn’t want her favourite cloths to get ruined after all.

“Er,” said Potter, before she could give him any instructions. She pressed her lips together in a thin line at the interruption, but if he sensed her irritation he didn’t mention it. “Professor Umbridge. Er – before we start, I – I wanted to ask you a… a favour.”

Dolores stared at him. He was joking, surely?

“Well, I’m… I’m in the Gryffindor Quidditch team,” he went on shiftily, and Dolores almost laughed right there in his face. “And I was supposed to be at the tryouts for the new Keeper at five o'clock on Friday and I was – was wondering whether I could skip detention that night and do it – do it another night… instead…”

The way he trailed off suggested he’d recognised the expression on her face for what it was: stark refusal. Furious, he dropped into his seat, and she wondered if the anger on his face would be the same as on the back of his hand once she was finished with him. (She certainly hoped so). Handing over the thin, black quill without smiling predatorily was challenging, but Potter was glaring holes into the parchment so Dolores didn’t think he had noticed her slip up. He flipped the quill over a few times, expecting the sharp point, and then looked up at her in question.

Ink. _Of course_. She hadn’t given him any. How could she have _possibly_ forgotten?

“Oh,” she sang cryptically, almost laughing in her glee, “You won’t need ink.”

Potter frowned deeply – _go on, say something_ she cackled – and started to write.

He opened his mouth at the first stab of pain, glanced over at her alarmingly, but returned to the lines. She watched the words etch into his skin, his fingers twitching at the waves of agony, and fought to contain a little happy dance.

 _I must not tell lies_ , Dolores thought.

Dolores, 2. Everyone else, 0.

 

**IV**

Woops, in goes the Veritaserum.

Had she used a bit too much?

 _Oh probably_.

Dolores placed down the cup and saucer, careful not to spill any of the tea, and pushed it gently towards her guest. Potter reached for the drink immediately, but he frowned down at it without taking a sip. Trying to relax, Dolores sat back in her chair and made a display of drinking her own tea, hoping he’d feel compelled to copy her action. Several lengthy moments passed where they just watched each other. Resisting the little voice in the back of her head telling her to just drug him the old fashioned way, Dolores shuffled in her seat and snapped,

“You’re not drinking up!”

She cursed herself. And cursed herself again. He was probably too self-absorbed and stupid to realise what she was trying to do, but she had to be vigilant. If any word of her behaviour reached knowing ears outside of the classroom, then she’d be in trouble. Headmistress or not there were some things she couldn’t do.

Still, what nobody knew wouldn’t hurt anybody. The sooner Potter drank his tea the sooner this would be over, and she’d have all the information she needed to rip Hogwarts down to its foundations.

No, further than that.

She would burn it right out of the history books, and Dumbledore’s name would be tarnished.

She would make sure of it.


End file.
